A Correspondence Course
by vanillapudding5
Summary: Letters of December, 1996 between Professor Albus Dumbledore and a certain Mr. Edmund Ollivander. Written with Pumaful at LJ for CastleHogwarts' December quidditch match.


10 December, 1996

To: Mr. Edmund M. Ollivander

In a Room, Presumably

Destination Unknown

My Dear Mr. Ollivander,

I trust that this note will find you safe and sound, wherever it is that you may be at the present time.

While I understand that you wish not to be bothered in your current state of concealment, I do have a favor to ask of you – a rather large favor, at that.

You will remember our conversation of a few months past; regarding the wands of Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort (trembling will get you nowhere, my good man, nowhere, at all). I asked you then if you would be so gracious as to offer your expertise in the matter of magical cores and their properties; surely you recall your insistence that it would be of no trouble.

That being said, I would like to draw your attention to the Phoenix feathers enclosed. You will notice that they are from the bird carrying the letter you hold in your hand; the very same that donated two others years ago. It would please me greatly if you would take a moment to look them over on your own – you are aware, I presume, of the information I am after – and report any oddities or plausible conclusions as soon as possible.

Pressing matters aside, Christmas is fast approaching, and I would be more than happy to have you as a guest. Recognizing your uncertainties pertaining to such, I can assure you that Hogwarts is safe as it has ever been, and if you choose to decline on the basis of fear, alone, I will be greatly disappointed.

Think it over – it would be most beneficial to speak to you face to face once more, and remember: _Horcrux is Not a Village in the German Countryside_.

All the Best,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S.: It would, I should think, be wise of you to step away from this parchment in a timely manner, as I've placed a variant of the _Destructo_! charm on it, knowing the likelihood of ever-annoying intruders. Fire, small explosions, itching powder…I'm sure you understand completely. Speaking of which, I'd like to apologize, once again, for that last occurrence; I'd no idea you had such sensitive skin.

--

13 December, 1996

To: Albus Dumbledore

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Hogsmeade, Scotland - Highland

Albus, 

Not quite as safe and sound as I was a few minutes prior. Do you take particular enjoyment by putting curses on all things you send to me? The batch of holly just sent in is now looking rather shriveled, as do my eyebrows.

Now, on to your bloody phoenix feathers, fine specimens as they are. I do remember our conversation, and, fool that I am to make you such a promise, I have no choice but to keep it. I will write back to you as soon as I have any information, which will be promptly -- not much else to do in this damned rabbit hole.

I am sorry, my dear fellow, but your hall will not be graced with my presence come Christmastime. Not because of He Who Must Not Be Named, as I do rather believe you in your assurance that your school is still safe, but fear that you may manage to cajole me into more absurd promises.

Edmund Ollivander

P.S. This letter will not self-destruct; you have such a great fondness for blowing things up that I present you this letter to put a spell on, have sent back to yourself, and enjoy it poof up into a cloud of dust.

--

15 December, 1996

To: Edmund M. Ollivander  
A Rabbit Hole  
Somewhere

Edmund,

I do sincerely hope that your allusion to life in the burrows of small, woodland creatures was purely in jest. Merriwether Fillmore made precisely the same decision to return to his 'roots' during our school years (his second cousin being 1/4 giant, as you will recall), and you know as well as I how _that _turned out. The poor boy - his toenails were never the same, again. _Surely_ you can't find comfort in such cramped quarters; _where would you fit the loo_? Or your collection of rare unicorn hairs, for that matter? Think of the consequences, Edmund, _think_.

I appreciate your willingness to assist me in researching _Little-Known German Villages_, and eagerly await your response, as it could very well mean the difference between life and death (the former _not_ in dirt holes - I much prefer castles and the like; they tend to be rather more bright and airy. Although, now that I think on it, I _did _take up residence in a charming little flat east of London, once. Lovely place, that was. But, it was years ago, and has little to do with the topic at hand).

As to your refusal to visit...you aren't _still_ stuck on those crackers, are you? If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: I wasn't _aware_ that the hats were flammable. Good Merlin, man, eyebrows have grown back before; they did then, they do now, and I'm confident they will continue to do so for many years to come.

You always _were_ something of a wet blanket, after all. So perhaps not Christmas. But what about Valentine's Day? We employ dozens of wonderful cherubs, and I'd even save a bit of the mistletoe for your enjoyment; it does the funniest thing...

Albus  
P.S.: Your severe lack of enthusiasm for all things merry does worry me, but O! how elated I am to see that you have the ability within you somewhere. That trick of yours - sending a letter to oneself and attempting to run before it combusts? Genius. Nary an entire day has passed, and already I've succeeded seven times! There may be hope for you, yet, my friend.

--

16 December, 1996

To: Albus Dumbledore

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Hogsmeade, Scotland - Highland

Albus,

You twit. For someone so obsessed with metaphors, paradoxes, and figurative language of any kind, you are depressingly thick when it comes to things like this. Of course I'm not living in a rabbit hole, but I'm not living in one of your over-large castles, either. Or a "charming little flat east of London", for that matter. 

Dumbledore, for someone as brilliant as everyone claims you to be, your attention span seems to be getting shorter and shorter as the years go by.

Ah, yes. The German villages. Damn. Reminding myself to close contact off with you as soon as possible, before I realize I've promised to fly a dragon, or something. Yes, I will research this too, as your faithful servant, and whatnot.

No further information on the feathers at the moment: a new shipment of dragon heartstring, yew, ebony, and unicorn hairs just came in, and I spent all of last week cataloguing them by length, thickness, etc. So, you'll just have to dream of those woolen socks you fancy so much and wait.

Going on to your little holiday cheer: maybe I am a wet blanket: a wet blanket that would much rather be damp than crispy-fried. Pyromaniacs are not part of the Christmas spirit, contrary to your opinion. As for the Valentine's Day offer: if you remember the Valentine's Day Fiasco of 1943, you will understand why I don't take you up on that. And, doubtless, those cute little cherubs you speak so charmingly of are hungry for blood.

Edmund Ollivander  
P.S.: You sod. I'm so very happy you enjoyed exploding my letter up, however many times you managed to do it before your short attention span got the better of you. Just remember to brush the ashes off your robe and beard: it's so very unbecoming to look like you just finished cleaning the chimney. Headmaster and all - want to look dignified, don't we?  
P.P.S: Of course it has a loo.

--

17 December, 1996

To: Edmund Ollivander  
Not a Rabbit Hole,  
Castle,  
or Flat.

Edmund,

If not a rabbit hole, castle, or flat, then where? Perhaps you imply residence in a cabin of some sort, to which I can only advise you to beware of your surroundings. I have been informed through correspondence with Lionel Lovegood that the Wood-Ravaging Wrackuskurch often appears during the particularly blizzard-prone portions of the year and, that time nearly upon us, I believe it would be in your best interests either to remain within the confines of that edible little abode of yours and hope for the best, applying peanut butter liberally around the perimeter and on the walls (Wrackuskurchs being, apparently, highly allergic to oils and nuts of any type), or set your stubbornness aside, and relent to spending Christmastime at Hogwarts. Holiday spirit in moderation never hurt anyone (Valentine's Fiasco of '43 not applying - we'd agreed to forgive and forget, had we not?).

I'm quite sure I've never asked you to do anything so dangerous as fly a dragon, O Dramatic One. A Chimaera, perhaps, but you never went through with it, anyhow (perfectly friendly creature though he was), so you may as well abandon that argument here and now.

As to the matter of German Villages. I mean not to rush or inconvenience you (though of the latter, I'm sure, you're convinced otherwise), but I fear I haven't stressed the gravity of the situation nearly as much as was my intent. If you have the time, Edmund, any time at all, _please_ take the opportunity to conduct further research. Preparation is key; we can never be precisely sure when or how Voldemort will make his move - the more information at present, the better. I've spoken to you in the past of the various numbers and odds involved and, as I'm certain you are more than aware, this could possibly be the fourth of six You Know Whats.

It is, in any case, a great deal easier to dream of socks (the most entertaining pair of which I was given recently by one of the house elves here - they _whistle_ when excessively odorous. Simply astounding) when one's mind is at ease.

Albus  
P.S.: Done. And thank you ever so much for the reminder. I find myself, as years go by, forgetting even the most menial of tasks - Basic Beard Maintenance (an excellent read by Helga Slohoughdon, by the way) being one of the primary. Why, just the other day, the wide-eyed gape of a first year alerted me to the presence of one of Filius' fairies hidden within its depths! Curious little creatures, they are (fairies, not first years. Though evidence to the latter can certainly be provided...).  
P.P.S.: I am so incredibly relieved.  
P.P.P.S.: I'll have you know that cherubs do _not_ bite. They're actually very friendly creatures and, discounting the _extremely_ rare case of Herbert (who had a rather nasty encounter with a vampire during a visit to Romania a few years back), not _nearly_ as blood-thirsty as you would expect. Any other excuses?

--

19 December, 1996

To: Albus Dumbledore  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Hogsmeade, Scotland - Highland

Dumbledore,

I am sorry that I am not able to reply to your last letter, filled with quirks and turns as I am sure it was: while studying your feathers, an ill-applied spell lit it on fire. I'm not exactly sure what type of parchment you use, but, as according to your pyromaniacal habits, I was not surprised to see that the thing was in ashes before I had time to whip out a spell to quench the fire. I had only read it once, and even though I may say that I have one of the best memories around, I require at least three readings of one of your rambling letters to be able to reply to it.

I have spent many a night prodding, pulling, cursing at and generally testing your bloody feathers, and have come to a final conclusion: the feathers are worthless when it comes to potential German Villages. The phoenix feathers are tricky things: some spells, especially ones having to do with protection or fire, stick to the feathers almost immediately and are impossible to get off - other spells slide off them like oil and water. After I found the spell needed to make a horcrux (disgusting it was, too), some calculations showed that it would be impossible to make the wands in question German Villages - the spell used is much too dark for something as pure as the phoenix feather to adhere too. I'm sorry, old chap, but this isn't the thing you're looking for.

That aside: no to whatever you asked in your letter. And no again. I shall see you at Christmastime.

Ollivander

--

20 December, 1996

To: The Cabin with Smoke Coming Out of the Windows

Edmund,

Ah, yes. The parchment. Perhaps I should have rid it of the powdered Ashwinder before sending it along with Fawkes. Despite your strong insistence otherwise, you _do_ have a tendency to light my things on fire, don't you?

And _I'm_ the pyromaniac.

I appreciate your prompt response. Though I must admit to some level of disappointment at the outcome, knowing the truth once and for all is far more beneficial than mere hope and assumptions. The sheer volume of possibilities _is_ rather daunting, and the ability to cross one off of my list brings me that much further along; for that I am grateful. In fact, I've already formulated another theory on the matter, one that appears to be even more likely than that of the wands. Out of curiosity: Have you, by chance, ever heard tell of reptiles being transformed into German Villages?

Your certainty that it would be unwise to accept anything I offered, and your readiness to refuse any future questions or favors that I may have asked is unfortunate, I must say. I'd have thought you'd be _grateful_ for that collection of vintage (and extremely rare, might I add) sheoak rods and veela hairs. Hmm. Well, no matter. The last thing I wish to do is disturb you in any way…

I am most pleased to hear that you will be joining us for the holidays, after all. Peeves is very much looking forward to your arrival – he's been bouncing off the walls since hearing the news, excitable little fellow that he is. Speaking of which – _do_ bring that sturdy cloak made of dragon leather, will you? I believe it's resistant to venom, and…well. We shall have fun; that is all I will say.

See you soon,

Albus  
P.S.: While I'm sure that your methods of testing for German qualities are more than foolproof, in the future you need not yell and curse so. Inanimate objects – _especially _those of the plumage variety – respond much more readily to quiet, calm voices. Jokes, I've found, also appear to work wonders. Wilhelmina told me the most amusing one just the other day, involving a Hag, a Boggart, and a bit of hellebore root. Remind me to tell you when you get here…


End file.
